


130 One Shots

by GoldenClover



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:03:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6721054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenClover/pseuds/GoldenClover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>130 short Pacific one-shots, focusing mainly on Sledge and Snafu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lock

**Author's Note:**

> None of these prompt ideas are mine, just something I found on Google, so I have no idea to give credit to. They'll take place in a multitude of different universes, sometimes canon, sometimes not. No disrespect is meant to the real veterans or their families.

            In a small town in the south, thick with humidity, a dark-haired young man stood on a broken down wooden porch, patting his pockets. “Goddammit,” he hissed in a distinct Louisiana drawl when his hands came out empty. He slouched against the side of the house in defeat, his pale eyes surveying the yard with a kind of calm assertiveness, and put a cigarette to his lips. Blowing a thin puff of smoke from his nostrils, he half-heartedly tried to remember where on  _ earth _ he could have left his keys. As he smoked and reflected over the day, a voice suddenly broke into his thoughts. “Hey, are you okay? I saw you fiddling around with your lock and thought you might need some help.” The young man whipped his head in the direction of the voice, ready to chew the guy out for interrupting his solitary smoke, but when he saw the speaker’s face, he just didn’t have the heart to get mad at the kid. He was awkward and gangly with a sweet smile and red hair that flopped softly over his forehead in a way that made you want to touch it, and he was dressed formally, in a white dress shirt and neatly creased slacks. His eyes were all leaf-green innocence and naivete as he grinned at the dark haired man, who was smaller and leaner, with an almost panther-like build. The smaller man had cinnamon coloured skin and a dangerous smile that slashed through your mind and thoughts with a careless abandon. His thick, raven coloured hair was a mop of curls that stuck up in all directions like some kind of glossy, black bush. But quite possibly his most intriguing features were his eyes. Big aqua-coloured orbs, flecked with gold, with haunted shadows stationed permanently underneath; they seemed to stare past your eyes and face into your very soul. His whole demeanor conveyed a reckless abandon and arrogance that you just couldn’t fake. He flicked away the still-burning cigarette as he raised his eyes to meet those of the ginger-haired boy, “Ah’ think ah’ lost my keys, I can’ seem t’ find ‘em anywhere.” The gangly young man frowned “Oh. Well, maybe I can help.” He held out his hand for the man to shake, “The name’s Sledge. Eugene Sledge.” His more cynical neighbor looked at the hand with an almost mocking eye and didn’t move. After a nearly minute of his hand hanging awkwardly in mid-air, he let it drop limply back to his side with a nervous chuckle. “Alright,  _ Sledgehamma’ _ . You can call me Snafu,” was all the young man said, voice void of any warmth. Sledge was a bit surprised at the nickname, but decided not to say anything. The guy was strange enough as it was. “Uh…. right then, um… Snafu. Let’s see about getting that door open.” Snafu smirked and nodded, as if to say,  _ sure, why not? _ He straightened himself from his slumped position against the wall and followed Sledge back up to the front porch.


	2. Paper Cut

            Eugene Sledge flinched as another bomb exploded in the distance, sending shudders down his spine. “Whassa’ matter, boy? Ya scared of a lil’ bomb?” Snafu was grinning at him, the cutting-edge shark grin that he seemed to wear permanently. Sledge just rolled his eyes and turned away to pick the letter his mama had sent him from off the ground. Carefully peeling back the letter’s manilla envelope and doing his best to ignore his comrade’s mocking laughter, he ran a dirty hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Shut up, Snaf.” Eugene said, very matter-of-factly, and pulled out a crisply pressed letter. He felt a slight weight bump against his shoulder as Burgie dropped down next to him, “Damn, Sledge, just a letter from your mama?” Burgin teased, “Don’t you got a girl back home?” Sledge snorted at that. “Naw, Burgie. No girl for me, just me and my books.” Snafu cackled at that, that hyena cackle Sledge knew so well. Sledge settled back and roamed the letter, letting his eyes drink in the gloriously familiar sight of his mother’s floral handwriting, taking in every delicate stroke of the _T_ , every carefully dotted _i_ , and every curled stroke of the _J_. For a moment, just the smallest moment, he let the letter carry him back home. He imagined his mama sitting at the grand mahogany desk tucked away in the sunroom, inking the words out, breathing life into them, thinking about them, thinking about _him_. For that perfect minute, he was back in Alabama, out in his sunny yard, maybe flicking through Dickens or, if he was feeling fancy, Shakespeare. Then another bomb shook the earth and he was brought back to reality, horrible reality. Sighing, he went back to his reading. _Dear Eugene,_ _how are you?_ Same old, same old. _Things are well here, the flowers are just beginning to bloom_. Boring. _The weather’s lovely and warm._ Blah blah blah, flowers, blah, blah, your dog, blah, blah, _Love, mother_. He moved to fold the letter up again when his shoulder jumped and he hissed in pain, slicing his finger on the sharp edge of the paper. Snafu glanced over at him in concern, “Whassa’ matter, Sledgehammer?” Sledge drew his finger away and stuck it in his mouth, “Nothing, just a paper cut.” He sucked on his finger for a while and glared at the offending paper. _Stupid, goddamn paper,_ he mused, knowing full well he sounded like a whiny child, _why the hell does it have to be so sharp, anyway?_ He tucked the paper back into its respective envelope and and stuck it in his pocket for a rainy day. “Here,” Burgie tossed him a band-aid, “Stick that on the cut.” Gratefully, Sledge picked it up and wrapped it around his finger, not bothering to ask where Burgie got it from. “Oh, boo-hoo, little baby Sledgehammer’s got a boo-boo.” Sledge sighed as he recognized the snide voice of Bill Leyden. God, everyone was just giving him crap today.


	3. Sunset

            Yawning, Sledge settled back against the filthy wall of his foxhole, preparing to take watch as the last rays of sunlight began to fade. He shifted in the muck so that his legs were stretched out in front of him, feet propped against the opposite side. He shouldered his gun, preparing for the worst, and got ready to be on the alert. “Wake me up in ‘bout an hour or so,” drawled his foxhole buddy, Snafu Shelton. Sledgehammer shifted his gaze to where Shelton was doing the best he could to make a battered helmet and pool of mud a suitable bed. “Will do,” he responded, already counting down the minutes until he could catch some shut-eye. They sat there silently for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, when suddenly Snaf sat up. “Hey,” he said, “Did y’ ever watch the sunset back home?” He stared at Eugene with expectant owl eyes, unconsciously leaning towards him. “I don’t know, sometimes,” Sledge replied after pondering the question for a little while, “Why do you ask?” Snafu shrugged, still staring at him with those intense eyes that Sledge couldn’t seem to shake, “Dunno, I was just thinking ‘bout it. My mama used to like watching the sunset.” Sledge almost jolted in shock, Snafu never talked about before the war, hell, for all he knew, Snafu had been  _ born _ on this fucking island. Carefully, he turned to his buddy, “She did?” he queried, wondering if Shelton would keep talking. “Mhm,” Snafu mused, more to himself than anything, “Didn’t think nothin’ of it, thought it was a waste o’ time.” He turned to Sledge, grinning, “Bet it was a damn prettier sight than all o’ that.” He gestured widely with his arm at the surrounding grime that was Okinawa. Sledgehammer chuckled, imagining an image of Okinawa splayed in all its glory across some cheesy postcard. Snafu leaned back again, resting his head on his helmet so the that his face was illuminated by the last dying sunshine. Sledge shifted so that he was sitting up, the sunshine setting his already red hair on fire, and, for the first time, found it to be himself staring at Snafu, rather than the other way round. It was hard to imagine little Snafu, a Snafu without wild eyes or too-skinny shoulders, hard to imagine him without a gun in his hand and a cigarette in the other, but instead, a little boy who’s mama liked to watched the sunset. If Snafu felt Sledge’s eyes on him, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he curled up and, Sledge assumed, drifted off into what counted for sleep on this island. The last flickering glimmers of sunshine burned into Eugene’s eyes, and he imagined his mama, his father, even his brother, somewhere far away, watching that exact sunset.  As the final beams of sun faded to purple, then black, Eugene settled back and thought that maybe, Okinawa or not, a sunset was still a damn pretty sight.


End file.
